Cricket

Mental prosthetics could help the disadvantaged—but give them new vulnerabilities.

advice grasshopper

Billy walked into his apartment and closed the door behind him. He pulled off his sweaty shirt and flung it toward the laundry basket. Finally, he was done with his job for the week! No more nagging boss. He was a free adult until Monday.

The shirt landed beside the basket. A red -2 flashed over the shirt. A cricket in a top hat appeared in the corner of Billy’s head up display, waving a finger. He cursed at his contact lenses for nagging him. He could take them out . . . but that would send a notice to that social worker, and she’d start phoning him. He walked over to the basket and picked up the shirt, neatly dropping it in. That produced a green 1. The basket wasn’t full enough for the cricket to nag him about doing laundry yet.

The apartment was one room, with a bed in one corner, a couch facing a TV in another, and a kitchen taking up the other side. Billy headed for the couch and videogame controller resting on it. Play time!

The cricket popped up again, holding a plate in one hand and scrubbing it with the other.

“I’ll do dishes later,” muttered Billy.

As he sat on the couch, the cricket slid to the center of his vision. Its face started to frown.

“Fine!” Billy stomped over to the sink and began washing the dishes. He’d left them from dinner last night and breakfast so the artificial conscience wouldn’t let him delay any more. Once they were all in the drying rack (+3) he demanded, “Can I play now?”

“Check your messages,” whispered the cricket through his earplugs.

 There were only a few messages in the inbox. He paid both bills (+2). The note from his mom he answered with six words, which was enough to satisfy the cricket. The last was titled “Software update: Augmented Reality Willpower Support Module.” Billy opened it. 

The message didn’t have any text. But the cricket said, “Please wait,” and froze.

“Dammit,” said Billy.

Now he was stuck until the update finished, and the cricket decided if he was done with his chores. If he started playing while it was frozen, it would throw a fit.

The projection shivered then smiled. “Good work, Billy! Chores are done. You can play now. And tomorrow’s your day off, so I’ve found a new game you can play!”

He got to sleep in on Saturday. The cricket did insist on a shower before breakfast, but allowed him to eat a sweet pastry instead of nagging him into cooking eggs. As he ate Billy noticed he’d left his towel on the floor. Usually it made him hang it up. Well, it was the weekend.

“Today you start playing the invitation-only Creature Fighter game!” announced the cricket.

That sounded fun. Billy obediently headed for the bus stop, not even bothering to put his dishes in the sink.

Nobody else was waiting at the bus stop. “How long until the bus comes?” whispered Billy. He was careful to not speak to the cricket loud enough for anyone else to hear. That bothered people.

The cricket appeared in the corner of the HUD, flipping through a stack of papers. That was odd. It always knew the bus schedule.

“City Transportation says the next bus will be here in twenty two minutes.”

Billy sat on the bench daydreaming until the bus woke him up. There were plenty of empty seats. “What’s this game about?” he whispered.

The cricket gave him a trailer for Creature Fighters. Hideous monsters invaded Earth and ate innocents until the fighters shot them.

“Wait, this uses real guns? I don’t know how to shoot a gun.”

“That’s why we’re going to the gun range,” said the cricket. “Once you succeed with a pistol you’ll be a Level One Fighter.”

“Oh, okay.”

The trailer showed players taking down big creatures in the woods then a warehouse. The climactic battle was in a crowded city square. Fighters shot holes in creatures while innocents ran away. Each innocent was marked with the number of points the fighters would lose if they were eaten.

“This is your stop,” said the cricket.

Billy didn’t recognize the neighborhood. It was all low brown buildings with signs like ‘Corcoran Plumbing Supplies’ and ‘Welding Services Specialists Inc.’

An arrow appeared in the air. “The gun range is three blocks away,” said the cricket.

Billy was five minutes early for the ‘Introduction to Firearms’ class. He read the advertisements on the classroom wall while waiting for the class to start. He had to show his ID to prove he was over 21. When the instructor asked why people wanted to learn to shoot blue text appeared, the cricket’s way of telling Billy what to say. “Curiosity,” he obediently said.

The other students said, “hunting” or “self defense.”

The lecture was lots of information. Billy hadn’t realized how complicated the inside of a pistol was. The mechanics he let wash past him. He carefully memorized the safety rules. He always got in trouble when he broke safety rules.

Shooting for real was nothing like a videogame. The eye and ear protection pressed on his ears almost hard enough to hurt. The smoke of the shots stung his nose.

Billy was surprised he did better than some of the other students when shooting for the first time. His shots were all over the paper target but at least he never missed the paper.

When the class was over he followed the cricket’s prompts and asked to practice longer.

“You can do a regular gun and lane rental,” said the instructor. “And you’ll need to buy your own ammo.”

The rental fees, two hundred rounds of ammo, and five paper targets went on Billy’s credit card. The amount was large enough the cricket would normally pull up the monthly budget and complain about him spending it.

“Can I afford this?” Billy whispered.

The cricket replied, “Creature Fighters will reimburse you for all the money you spend on the game.”

So Billy signed the credit card slip.

The rental range wasn’t as nice as the one they’d done the class in. The guy in the next lane fired a pistol so loud Billy flinched even with the hearing protection on over the cricket’s earplugs.

He put the target five yards away and started shooting. The cricket helped with arrows and circles showing him how to properly place his hands around the pistol. Fifty rounds and two targets later he was putting holes in the center ring some of the time.

When the pistol locked back on an empty magazine a big gold number one appeared in the center of his vision. Multi-colored fireworks exploded around it.

“Congratulations, Billy,” said the cricket. “You’re a Level One Creature Fighter now. Get ready to shoot some evil creatures.

He reloaded and put a new target out. The paper target became a mass of writhing tentacles. It slithered across the floor toward him. A yellow circle outlined the head.

Billy’s first shot went low. One tentacle went still. The second hit the head with a splash of white ichor. The creature halted. The third and fourth also went in the yellow circle. White fluid sprayed out as the creature slumped to the floor.

A bright green ‘10’ appeared over the corpse, scoring his progress toward level two. Then it vanished, just leaving the paper target with three new holes in it.

“Good work,” said the cricket. “You’ve killed the first creature.”

A lizard with long pointy teeth charged toward him. The yellow circle sat in the center of its chest. Billy took it down with two shots. A green ‘20’ popped up.

“I like this game,” whispered Billy.

The next one looked like a bear. Billy kept shooting the creatures. Each hit in the target circle sprayed white or green or red blood. None came close enough to take points away.

He was cool and efficient when shooting except when the seven foot tall cockroach appeared. That was so ugly Billy instantly yanked the trigger three times. The bullets went wild. Then he steadied down and shot it between the compound eyes. It fell at his feet in a puddle of green gore. Only five points were awarded.

That was the worst of the eight different creatures. When they repeated Billy could fire faster, not needing to look for the target circle. More fireworks announced his arrival at level two.

“As an experienced Creature Fighter you’ll have tougher creatures to fight,” said the cricket.

Now the things didn’t have the yellow target circle. They moved to throw off his aim. A tentacle critter bobbed its head up and down, making such a hard target it nearly touched him.

Billy reached down and realized he was out of rounds to load into the pistol. A graph appeared showing he was halfway to Level Three.

“Good work!” cried the cricket. “That’s amazing progress for your first time playing.”

Billy realized he was tired. His legs and back ached from hours of standing. His arms felt worse after spending that long holding a big chunk of steel at full extension. The palms stung from the recoil of every bullet.

“That’s enough for today,” continued the cricket. “Now it’s time to buy the pistol and supplies for your next trip to the range.”

It left Billy alone as he dropped the eye and ear protection in the basket and headed for the counter. “Can I buy this gun, please?”

“It’s one of the training fleet,” said the cashier. “We don’t sell those. But I have a used one of the same model I can sell you.”

“That’s fine.”

“You have to fill out the background check form.” The cashier stared at Billy’s face as he slapped the paperwork down on the counter.

“Can I borrow a pen?” Billy didn’t mind employment applications and such. It was like a test where he knew all the answers.

When the paperwork was done the cashier scooped it up. “I need to run this through the Federal system to check for any convictions or restraining orders.”

That didn’t worry Billy. He’d been urged to get a cricket because he was always late to class and forgetting his homework. Which is what ‘executive function disorder’ meant. He didn’t have to have a cricket like guys who were required to as part of their probation. He hated being mistaken for one of them.

While the cashier was in the back office, Billy gathered up everything on the shopping list the cricket gave him. He stacked them neatly on the counter. Through the open office door he saw the cashier still working on the computer. No, the guy was checking his social feed now.

Huh. That baby looks just like my niece, thought Billy. Then one of his mother’s quilts scrolled onto the screen. That guy’s looking at my social feed.

Well, it was all public. All Billy put in his feed was stuff his family posted.

The cashier came back out with some printouts. “Okay, you’re clean. You want this stuff too?”

“Yes, please.” Billy shoved the pile across the counter.

The guy rang up the pistol, ammo, eye and ear protectors, and carrying bag without hesitation. He held up the shoulder holster. “You can’t carry concealed without a permit.”

Blue text appeared. Billy obediently read it out loud. “I’m taking that class next month.”

The total was more than Billy had ever spent on anything except his rent. It’s a good thing the game is reimbursing me for all this.

The bus ride home was boring. Billy arrived home and was promptly prodded to do dishes and laundry. Then he could play one of his old plain videogames until bedtime.

---

“Wake up, Creature Fighter!” bellowed the cricket. “You have a mission today.”

Billy stumbled through his morning routine in half the normal time. The cricket was being worse than when he was late to work.

When he reached for a T-shirt the cricket said, “No, put on the suit. You’re going to church today. There’s a report a creature will attack there.”

The suit was black. It was bought for his grandfather’s funeral and worn every Christmas and Easter when his grandmother dragged the family to church.

“Holster next,” interrupted the cricket when Billy picked up the suit jacket.

“But I need a permit for that.”

The cricket performed an eye roll animation. “Not when you’re playing the game. You have to have the pistol for the game.”

“Oh.”

In the suit he could barely tell the holster was there. The mirror showed he’d made a mess of the tie. The cricket guided him in retying it.

“That’s still ugly,” said Billy as he looked at his reflection.

The cricket answered, “It’ll have to do. You need to catch the bus.”

Billy noticed the game was making the cricket chatty. Usually it just showed the tapping-the-wristwatch animation when it was time to go.

This time the bus took him to a nice neighborhood. Big houses with wood shingle siding. Smooth lawns. Trees along the road. It dropped him off a fifteen minute walk from the church.

This church was prettier than his grandma’s. The windows were colored pictures of people and animals. Brightly colored posters with kind sayings hung on the walls.

The people were dressed nice too. Instead of feeling uncomfortable in the heavy suit Billy was glad he fit in. Even some of the little kids were in suits.

The cricket steered him to a pew in the middle. The cushion was as soft as his bed. Billy flipped through the pamphlet the old guy at the door had given him. It wasn’t anything like grandma’s church. But if they stayed on the script he’d be okay.

Embarrassment hit him right away. Billy stood up with everyone else. Reading the script to know when to say prayer responses distracted him from the congregation turning around to see the preacher entering from the back.

He looked up to see the man in a grey suit two pews away smiling at him. The ten year old boy next to the man—also in a suit—made a ‘turn around’ gesture.

Billy pivoted. There was a parade coming down the aisle. Six people in white robes, one carrying a cross and another a pole with a flame on it. Everyone turned to watch them as they went by.

After that he could say the prayers and sing the hymns without being tripped up.

Halfway through a bouncy hymn gold letters popped up. ‘CREATURE FIGHTER ALERT.’ Billy looked around. The church looked the same. Everyone was facing the altar, faces down in their hymnals.

Then he saw a giant brown cockroach two pews away. Slime dripped from the pincers around its mouth. Two legs reached over the pews at him.

Billy pulled the pistol from under his jacket. He twisted the safety lever to let the red dot show. Then he carefully wrapped his hands around the grip, left hand steadying the right.

The lady next to him screamed and scrambled away. More screams came from behind him. He could hear people running.

The vulnerable spot on the giant cockroaches was between the front legs. Billy lined up the sights on it. People around the roach were turning, looking at him, and fleeing.

“Okay, creature fighter, take the shot,” said the cricket in an encouraging tone.

“I can’t,” whispered Billy. “Third safety rule. My backstop isn’t clear. I’ll hurt someone if I miss the roach.”

The boy in the suit said, “Dad, Dad!” as he held on to the roach. A red ‘-50’ appeared over the boy’s head. The roach spread its mandibles wide and hissed.

“Shoot it before it eats the kids or you’ll lose points,” ordered the cricket.

Something wasn’t right. Billy reached up with his left hand and popped out a contact lens. Now when he closed his right eye he saw a man in a suit. When he opened it he saw the big scary cockroach.

An altar boy ran up the aisle holding the metal pole he’d used to light the candles.

Billy started to ask him, “Hey, do you see a—”

The pole slammed into the side of Billy’s head.

---

Billy blinked as he woke up. Both his contact lenses were gone. His head hurt like hell. He looked around at the hospital room. He was in a bed with rails. Wires on his head and chest connected to machines with lots of dials and wiggly line displays. Blue curtains covered the window. The TV on the wall was turned off. An empty cushioned chair sat under it. He smelled lemon cleaner. There were people talking in the hallway.

“Cricket, what time is it?”

No answer. Billy reached up to check if the earplugs were still there but couldn’t. Both hands were handcuffed to the rails of the bed. Actual steel like the cops use on TV handcuffs.

A nurse came in. She interrogated him on his aches then gave him some water and a pill to help the pain. Billy refused a bedpan. She left.

Then there was nothing to do but wonder how much trouble he was in. He wished he’d asked the nurse to turn on the TV.

After a while a man in black suit came in. He was tall, lean, and had a little grey in his brown hair. He held up a badge. “Hello, Billy. I’m Special Agent Flanagan. Feel up to answering some questions?”

“I guess. Am I in trouble?”

A smile split the agent’s weathered face. “Ooh, yeah. How much trouble we’re still trying to figure out.”

Billy shivered in fear.

Flanagan took the handcuffs off then pulled the chair to beside the bed. “Anything unusual happen at work Friday?”

“Nah. Boring day. Boss didn’t even get mad at me.”

“What happened after work?”

Billy told the story of the whole weekend. Flanagan prompted him whenever he got stuck. They’d read his email and knew about his visit to the gun range.

“. . . and the game wanted me to shoot that cockroach but it was really a person and I had to take the lens out to see it was a person and then I guess someone hit me in the head.”

“Yeah, you got hit. You were out for a day.” Flanagan typed some notes into his recorder.

“Did I hurt anyone?” asked Billy with a quiver in his voice.

Flanagan wore a sour look. “You didn’t shoot anyone. There’s three broken bones and a bunch of minor injuries from everyone stampeding away from you. And there’s six dead Congressmen killed yesterday by a conspiracy you’re part of.”

“I . . . I was just playing a game!”

“That’s no excuse for breaking the law.” Flanagan said it coldly.

Billy shivered again. “Which laws?”

“Carrying a concealed weapon without a permit. Entering a facility that bans weapons while carrying without a permit. Aiming a loaded weapon at a person. Being part of a conspiracy to commit murder.”

By the time Flanagan’s recitation was over Billy was pressed against the headrail of the bed and pulling the blanket up to hide under.

In a lighter tone the investigator continued, “Now, you’re being fully cooperative, which counts for a lot. And Congressman Alverstoke wants us to drop the charges, which counts for even more.”

Billy lowered the blanket to his shoulders. “Alverstoke?”

“The guy you didn’t shoot. He appreciates that.”

“Oh. What do I have to do?”

Flanagan leaned toward him. “We want to know how the assassins hacked your executive function prosthetic. They went for people with IQs of 90 or less. We want to know why they picked you. That means turning your life upside down. And we want to catch them, which might mean using you as bait.”

“Okay. I’ll cooperate.”